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UliCLE m AND HIS fPHEW : 



TsjM'PijfjSN'dt;, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS, 



BY 



M0Jsf¥(^0M5<SiY, V^. 



\ 



UpE SAM AND HIS pHEW : 



TEMPERANCE. 



AND 



OTHER POEMS, 



BY 



'^FCO/Vq. 



/ 



( APR 23 1890 



REY. AUSTIN SCRIBNERi-NG,6t. 



MONTGOMERY, VT. 



BARTON, VT. : 

v. I.. WKBSTKll, I'HINTEU, 

181H). 






Copyright, 1890, by the Author, A. Scrihner, Montgomery, Vt. 



iJudle ^ciiri kT|d fii>^ X^fliew. 



Nephew : 

Good morn ! Good morning, Uncle Sam ! 
Thou art become a fine, sleek man ; 
I called to ask you 'How you do ?' 
And, if reports I hear, are true ? 

Uncle Sam : 
All rioht, come in — a chair, sit down, 
How long sir, since you came to town ? 
RiiT^it glad to see ray brother's son, 
For he and I, were just like one, 

Neyjhew : 
I came this morn, the early train, 
But cannot very long remain ; 
My business is of deep concern. 
As you Sir, very soon will learn. 

I know it doesn't always i)ay 
To take much stock in what folks say, 
For talk is cheap and always was, 
However false or real the cause. 

But then, I really do declare 

There must be something wrong somewhere ; 

These folks are either telling lies. 

And I can't see from out these eyes 

Or else there's something wrong with you^ 
Now wliich is false and whicli is true? 
They really say your'e getting ricli — 
Though some ^^y poor^ I don't know wliich. 

Of course it must be one or t'other. 
And since you were so fine a brother 
^\nd having such a strong desire 
I thought rd call, and just inijuire. 



For if tliis tnlk is realh/ tnic — 
Tlint such ixfine, deek nmn ns yoi/. 
Are fjettinjj I'icli, l»y sellini*- '■Rum^^ 
It's time tlie hellisli work was done. 

But tnitli to tell, I don't believe it, 
So gross a crime I can't conceive it. 
That such a man as you, should sell 
This darkest, fiercest drink of hell. 

How could you, sir, be thus so bold. 
To sell this cursed stuff for o-old; 
To fill your coffers thus with blood, 
Then fill out your returns to God? 

Ah, no ! 1 really can't conceive it. 
So gross a crime, I don't believe it. 
That you should thus bemean yourself 
For gain of gold, that paltry pelf 

'Twould be too much like one of old, 
Who sold his Lordiov gain of gold, 
But soon returned the paltry pelf 
And went straightway and hanged himself. 

'Twould be too much like gold for strife — 
Too great a sacrifice of life — 
When "eighty thousand" every year, 
By far too bad for mortal ear. 

Yes, "eighty thousand," every year! 
No wonder you should quake with fear, 
That such a man as you might be. 
Should thus be 'whelmed in such a sea. 

Ah, no! this thing can never be, 
No sort of grounds for such a plea. 
I don't believe you could do so, 
You couldn't be so wicked, no! 

But then, they say it is a fiict 

That you have done fiir worse than that ; 

That this is not the hundredth part 

Of what you've done to crush poor hearts. 



— 5— 

"Eighty thousand," for one decade. 

You see, would ten times worse be made ; 

Then multiply this ten by ten, 

'Twill give you just "eight millions," then. 

Just think of that! "eight million" souls 
That you have sacrificed for gold ! 
Oh ! can it be onedialf is true. 
Of such a '•'• ChriHticui'' man as you? 

All this, in just one hundred years, 
Enough to flood the world with teais; 
Though not onedialf, as yet, is told 
Of evils wrought by rum you've sold. 

Just think of widows' scalding tears. 

That have been shed through all these years. 

With orphans' sad and bittei' cry, 

Who, pinched with want, must starve and die. 

Could you but hear their piteous wail, 
I'm sure your inmost heart would quail, 
You could not bear the fearful weit^ht 



^ 



Of sufterino; shame which vou create. 



& 



Eight million men^ eight million loives, 
Make sixteen MiLLioisrs sacrificed ; 
Then comes the children, sixteen more, 
Just two to each, it should be four. 

But lest you say it's much too large, 
We're making much too grave a charge, 
We put it down at half the number. 
And yet we know oui- friends will wonder. 

Twice sixteen millions — thirty-two ! 
And all these millions charged to you; 
All sacrificed to "demon bum," 
And this is not the Aa^/" you've done, 

For who can figure orphans' tears 
That have been shed through all these years ? 
Who tells the sorrow of those hearts, 
When crushed and ruined hope departs ? 



— 6— 

Just collie with nie, my "Uncle Sam," 
Then ti^ure on it, if you cm ; 
l^eliohl the work wliieh you liave done! 
P\)ot tlie amount, and <>ive tlie sum ! 

Come witli me now to yonder cot, 
I know it is a dingy s]M)t ; 
But you're the man tliat made it so, 
You've filled that little cot with woe. 

See, yonder! 'neath that pile of straw, 
The saddest sioht man ever saw ; 
See tliere the mother and the child, 
See now, she looks at ns so wild. 

Ah, what a sad and fearful plight, 
No wood, no fii-e, no food, no light ; 
No bed, no clothes to keep her warm ; 
So sick, so sad and so forlorn. 

The child she bear is starved and dead, 
Nor can the mother raise her head ; 
And soon, she too, must starve and die, 
And can you give the reason why ? 

Once she was fair and strong and well, 
As lithe and sweet as a marriage belle; 
Her husband too, and darling boy 
Brought to her home the sweetest joy. 

But now her earthly all is gone, 
The husband, father, and the son ; 
And she is left to starve and die. 
And dare you state the reason why ? 

I know it comes close home to you ; 
But though so sad, it Y)iui^t be true. 
Oh dear!^oh dear! "Old Uncle Sam," 
As Nathan said, "Thou art the man." 

You sold him rum ; he killed his son ; 
The father, then, of course was hung. 
"Me ! kill my boy !" the father said. 
As to his charge the crime was laid. 



—7— 

"No, never ! no ! It was not me ! 
Such cruel act could never be ! 
No! it was not tne that killed my boy — 
My hig-hest hope, my brio:htest joy." 

You killed that boy, "Old Uncle Sam !" 
Now just deny it, if you can. 

You sold him rum. Rum fired his brain. 
And while thus mad, the boy was slain. 

The father then was tried for crime. 
When you were guilty all the time. 
For murder, then, you had him hung. 
So two were killed because of rum. 

Beneath this fearful weight of woe 
The mother sank, and sank so low. 
And who's to blame, there is no doubt 
For you have brouo:ht it all about. 



o 



Nor think this one the only case — 
Your only crime, so vile, so base. 
'Tis only oue of thousands more; 
The thing's repeated o'er and o'er. 

Now let us go within those walls, 
Walk through those lonely prison halls ; 
Just ask those prisoners, one by one. 
The question, "Whither art thou come ?" 

They'll tell you with united breath 
That rum had caused their victim's death; 
But for it's power they might be free ; 
So this must all be charged to thee. 

See ! Standing there close by those walls, 
The one on whom this sorrow falls. 
All bathed in tears, and sore distressed, 
With baby clinging to her breast. 

Her boon companion's locked within, 
Nor can she even speak to him. 
You've stolen him away from home, 
And she is left to weep alone. 



— 8— 

Oh, -Uncle S:un!" Oh, ''Uiiclf Snm !" 
How eouhl you be so bad a man. 
To spread such woe and sin abroad, 
Tlien die, and meet a holy God ? 

Uncle So III : 
Charge this to tne^ you little scamp? 
Dale not ! or you shall soon I'ecant. 
Fni DOt to blanie i'or all this crime; 
The sin is yours as mu(.'h as mine! 

I've been accused of quite enough ; 

I'll hear no more of this vile stuff! 

And now, sir, if you do not stop it, 

I'll thrust you through this gate and lock it. 

J^ephev) : 

All right! all right! I know you can, 
P\)r yon are much the stronger man ; 
But then I know that light is right, 
And truth will surely come to light. 

No matter what becomes of me, 
If I am what I ouoht to be ; 
P^or right is right and must prevail, 
And truth is truth and can not fail. 

So do not think to frighten me, 
Vov that can never^ never be. 
I think I know what I have said, 
And I'll stick to it till I'm dead. 

You'll not scare me to take it back, 
So you will please remember that, 
For there is One wdio knows full well 
The step of those in league with hell. 

Uncle Sam : 
But do you know, my little man, 
Him you address as "Uncle Sam ?" 
Do you consider who he is. 
That all this wealth of gold is his? 

These myriad acres, too, of land. 
Washed on each side by ocean's strand, 
With inland seas and rivers wide 
On which larsje ocean steamers ride ? 



—9— 

See you those loftj mountains, piled 
With rocks and forests dense and wild, 
With hill and dale and fertile plain. 
So rich with flocks and herds and grain ? 

See you those richer mines of ore, 

While railways stretch from shore to shore? 

See you the town and village mart, 

In which so many share a part? 

See you that strange electric light, 
Which turns to day the darkest night? 
See you the spindle, saw and lathe, 
Which doth so much of labor save ? 

See those huge vessels on the seas, 
With stars unfurling to the breeze ? 
See all those mighty "'Men of War," 
Canst tell me, sir, what these are for? 



The telegraph, the telephone, 
Strange though it be, are all my own. 
All these are mine, and thousands more, 
For earth yields me her richest store. 

At my command men rise and^fall ; 
I sway the scepter over all ; 
So if you "would protection find^ 
Be sure, sir, that you always mind. 

Nephew : 

I see, dear uncle, you are rich ; 
I'm glad, at last, I've found out which? 
But, sir, how came you by it all — 
Both town and city, great and small ? 

Did you procure it by deceit ? 
Or did you purchase it with wheat? 
Ah, yes ; I see just how 'twas done, 
You got it, sir, by selling rum ! 

If I could sell the cursed stuff, 
J^d soon be rich, and rich enough ; 
But then, I fear the consequence, 
It would be such a gross offence. 



—10— 

No^ sir ; I'd I'allier ])Oor remain 
Than sell this "crnvsed stuif" for oain. 
IM ratlior like a '•'•Lazarus''' die^ 
Than hear the orphans piteous cry 

Than be like '^Dioes,'" wliom they say. 
Was clothed in purple every day. 
He fared most sum])tuous all the while, 
And lived in grandest, richest style. 

But when at length the man was dead, 
In hell he lifted nj) his head 
And ci-ied for water — ;just one drop — 
But was refused the slightest jot. 

Now think what profit for his gain ; 
He heaped his riches all in vain ; 
For better would it been for hin), 
If he, himself, had never been. 

So would it be for "Uncle Sam," 
J^ar bettei', than so rich a man. 
To die as poor as '•'•Lazarus''' was, 
Than to a:et rich in such a cause. 



to' 



For when the time of death shall come. 
The course of life be fully run. 
The torments none on earth can tell. 
Of those who lift their eyes in hell. 

Uncle Sam : 
iSee here/ See here ! you little brat. 
Dare you suggest such stufi: as that? 
Think you that /shall go to hell? 
A man so sleek, so fine, so well? 

Dare you to treat your uncle so. 
From whom might fall such fearful blow ? 
Beware^ sir, lest on you it fall, 
However much for grace you call. 

No, sir ; I'll hear no more of this, 

So I forewarn you to desist, 

Nor dare to speak another word. 

Lest moved to wrath, my voice be heard. 



— IJ— 

You charge this cursed stuff to me, 
While any one can plainly see 
That it is not your "Uncle Sam" 
More than it is some other man. 

Just reconsider what you've said, 
Before to me this crime is laid. 
I've npver sold one drop of rum. 
No, not one c//v>p, beneath the sun. 

Nephew : 

Correct, dear uncle ; that is ti"ue ; 
No man has ever houoht of you^ 
Nor can they do it, I'll admit, 
For you have never sold a bit. 

Now why should you be so much blamed. 
Since all these facts are thus explained? 
Why should you be so much accused? 
Too bad ! too bad! you are abused. 

I'll take it back, all I have said, 

Nor shall this curse rest on thy head ; 

For you are not the one at all 

On whom this weight of sin should fall. 

Of you, this stuff, no man has bought; 
You've never sold a single drop ; 
So you are hence, forever free, 
As any one can plainly see. 

So you to tear have never been, 
Old England's shores you've never^seen ; 
You've never sailed across the seas. 
Nor stars unfurled before the breeze. 

In fact, I know not lohat }'Ou've done; 
Scarce anything beneath the sun ; 
For what you've charged your boys to do, 
Of course could not be charged to you. 

They are the ones who are to blame ; 
On them must rest the guilty stain. 
So after all you are not so bad ; 
I've had my doubts, and ahcays had. 



—12— 

Now sino(' I own that yon are clear, 
Your wrathful voice I need not fear. 
You've never done one single thing 
Of what these folks against you bring. 

Y^ou've just stood l)y, and seen your boys 
J^ob all our homes of all our joys; 
Our brightest ho])es have blighted been 
Because the father "licensed" them. 

The boys, of course, you w\\\ j^rotect^ 
Because they do as yoic diiect. 
You license them to sell this curse, 
Now W'ho's to blame, and which is worse? 

Thus all the crime that has been done 
In consequence of selling rum, 
Is charged to him, whose right it was 
To put in foi'ce some righteous laws. 

So you can easily evade 
The sin and crime of ten decades. 
Go wash your hands in ixjStocence 
And rest at ease in consequence. 



But, hold ! Who is this "Uncle Sam ?" 
However good, or bad a man, 
But you and me, and thousands more? 
A fact we can not well ignore. 

We hold the reins in our ow^n hands. 
We have the law at our command ; 
We have the power to stop this woe. 
Now will we do it? Y^es, or No? 



—13— 

^l^e Bfook. 

A SOLILOQUY. 



Sing on, sweet brook, we hear thy song, 
Pursuing thus thy course along, 
A-rattling o'er the stones and rocks, 
Through pastures green, 'mid herds and flocks. 
Ad own the hills, across the plain. 
Along the mead, through grass and grain, 
On, on you speed, through town and ville. 
You laughing, sparkling, sportive rill. 

Hold on, please now, just wait a bit. 
As on your banks awhile I sit ; 
Along which grow^ the alder bush, 
The fern and daisy, flag, and rush. 
Please let me sport with you awhile 
And catch your cheerful, winsome smile. 
What! can not stop, nor give a look? 
You willful, scornful, hateful brook. 

Please now, don't run so fast, I pray, 
But list awhile to what I say ; 
Please now, within this cooling shade 
Whilst I enjoy a pleasant wade. 
My feet are aching for a bath. 
Hold on, please now, just in this path. 
Pile u]) your waters ankle deep. 
While I shall bathe my aching feet. 

Why not, sweet brook, grant my request, 
Stop in this shade, stay back and rest ? 
Why should you in such hurry be, 
Thus rushing onward toward the sea? 
The sea already has enough. 
Already fearful deep and rough. 
Please stop right here and let us play 
Just one brief hour ! why don't you, say ? 



—14— 

Me, stop niul play ? ami me a brook? 
Why, just consider how 'twould look ! 
A brook, to cease its onwai'd flow. 
Would just the height of folly show. 
Nor should I ever reach the sea. 
Nor meet the end designed for me. 
Nay, stop me not, lest I am done ; 
To be a brook, a brook must run. 

Bathe if you will, as on I go, 
You'll not harm rae by doing so. 
The worst of usage I'll endure. 
By running I shall soon be pure. 
I'd just as soon, if you think meet, 
To wash your hands as wash your feet ; 
Yea, slake your thirst or turn your mill. 
But can do nothing standing still. 

See in my waters sportive fish, 

Which you consider such a dish. 

If I should cease my onward flow 

These "speckled beauties" could not grow. 

Yea, all in me you love so well, 

And which I have no right to sell, 

Would hence, forever cease to be, 

As you can most distinctly see. 

On I must go, down to the mill, 
For all those wheels are standing still. 
The miller's waiting for me now, 
I can not bother anyhoio ; 
The farmer's waiting for his grist, 
I wish you would at once desist. 
And let me on my mission go, 
Not dare again to plague me so. 



—15— 



We're tossed on the billowy ocean of life, 
Uplieaved and depressed witli commotion and strife, 
AbsorV)ed in our business and family care, 
Exultant with hope and o])pi'essed with despair. 

But which way soever the stoi'm tempest blows, 
The tide ebbs as much, near-about, as it flows. 
Our joys and our sorrows, did we but compare, 
We have as much hope as we have of despair. 

Did we notice our joy as much much as our grief. 
We might be afl'orded a kind of relief, 
But we brood o'er our grief and hover our care. 
Than give up our hope and sit down in despair. 

We ought to be hopeful and buoyant and glad, 
Instead of so doubtful, so mournful and sad; 
Trust God for protection, for guidance and care, 
Rejoicing in hope and give up our despair. 

Then let the proud waves of old ocean roll on, 
Their rough, surging billows will sooner be gone. 
If we only are right, we soon shall be where 
We shall glory in hope, quite free from despair. 







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